


Bring the Sunshine Out

by significantowl



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: And of Karen Being into Matt, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Matt Murdock's Lips, Mentions of Minor Injuries, Mentions of Past Matt/Claire, Mouth Appreciation, POV Multiple, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 14:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6012351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a Matt Murdock Mouth Appreciation prompt. Matt's mouth is worth a look or three, and Foggy, Karen, and Claire give it its due.</p><p>(It's Foggy who brings out the sun.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring the Sunshine Out

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Capriccio! ♥

i. 

She’s always so close to getting caught. But it’s the name of the game: when that smile breaks out, when Matt’s lips curve wide and delighted, when his head falls back, when Karen’s looking at a sunbeam flash of _joy_ -

There’s always an eyewitness. Because it’s never for her. 

It's Foggy this time, Foggy always. They're having lunch around the conference table, but for some reason he's talking about breakfast. Babbling about the miracle that ismaple sausage (“The Holy Trinity of pig, tree, and assorted mystery byproducts, Matt!”) and reminiscing about Great Waffles of the Past. It's the sausage that does it; Matt's laugh is short, but his smile is a mile long, and how can Karen _not_ stare at the way his cheeks scrunch up and every part of his face she can see goes happy and soft? How can she not?

Aesthetics are aesthetics, and objectively, Karen’s sure that smile would be a thing of beauty even if she didn't know Matt. If the city had treated her differently and they'd never met, if she simply passed that smile one day on the street, it would still be worth a long, long look. But knowing Matt makes her a rare-gems expert; it lets her know when something precious has been unearthed. It teaches her to appreciate what she reasonably expects never to have. 

Oh, she's made Matt's lips twitch before. Quirk up. Prompted a bright flash of teeth. But _this_ \- sure, Karen can set the wheels in motion, usually by poking the exactly right sort of fun at Foggy, but it’s Foggy’s reaction, Foggy’s sputtering that brings the sunshine out. 

She’s always so close to getting caught. But Foggy doesn't like to look away from the sun either, and she thinks, most of the time, that saves her.

  


ii.

He’s got a pretty mouth, Matt Murdock. Claire’s never shied away from calling things like she sees them, and what she sees, she likes: the plushness of that bottom lip and all the softness it suggests (and, she happens to know, delivers). The high Cupid’s bow of his upper lip, and the way it seems to encourage the idea of nudging that lip even higher; she's done that before, she's done that with her mouth.

Looks pretty, and it feels pretty too. 

But that's secondary. It has to be. The determination he carries in the lines of that mouth has always flared the brightest for Claire; she loves it and fears it, admires it and recognizes it for the ticking bomb it is.

Sometimes it's a straight, firm, immovable line - like right now, as she stitches up what he refuses to call a stab wound because, “Slicing and stabbing are two different motions, Claire.” He was good about hiding his pain before, she only ever saw glimpses, but now that he and she are - well, this - he's taken stoicism to a whole new level.

“You know it's scary, right?” Claire strips off a glove and touches her thumb to his chin. It's not necessary to the task at hand, but it settles something within her to coax a reaction from him. And it works: he tilts his head forward into her hand, and she cups his jaw. “I do this crap for a living. I know what happens to a body when you break it open. Physiologically. Psychologically. The way it responds. And you -” She feels like throwing up her hands, but she doesn't. Leaves one on his cheek and one on his shoulder, braced.

Matt’s lips twist. “You know the responses of an untrained body,” he corrects. 

That’s no comfort, and they both know it wasn’t meant to be one. Attack him and watch him adjust his stance, turn honesty into a weapon to force you away. But look how prepared Claire is. Look at her, holding _him_ in place.

Her thumb has slipped to the corner of his mouth. His fault, she thinks.

That twist to his lips - it's expressive, it's enticing, it's another flash of pretty, but it's part of that determination, too. It's winning the conversation by side-stepping, by trapping the real argument on his tongue. It's a ploy to let an opponent tire themselves out. 

Claire could kiss him again. It would feel nice, and no one would win. 

It would be easy, if it weren’t for the suffocating weight of choice.

  


iii.

Matt's not allowed to eat ice cream in public anymore. No, to be specific - and Foggy will be, because specificity plays a role in any good contract - Matt's not allowed to eat his favorite strawberry-lemon organic sorbet in public anymore, and Foggy’s got the leverage to make that happen, seeing as he was the one fool enough to get Matt hooked in the first place. It happened one day when Matt came to work with his voice all husky and rough, and Foggy, certain Matt was nursing a case of strep or the plague, and equally certain he wouldn't leave work for either, had detoured to that fancy shop on 8th during lunch and come back with three different flavors for Matt to try.

“I know you're not a big ice cream guy, but this isn't ice cream, it's fruit,” he'd said, arranging the pint containers in a semicircle on Matt's desk. “Do me a favor and pick one you can live with. _Please_.”

Matt's lips had twitched up, but he hadn't said anything, not even _tell me none of these are avocado flavored_ , and Foggy’d been sure it was because his throat was on fire. He'd accepted the spoon Foggy pressed into his hand, popped the first lid, and that had been that.

A new era of pain for Foggy had been born.

The spoon was a long-handled recycled plastic one that the guy behind the counter had tossed into the bag. A different spoon would've made no difference; torment was torment. But that slim handle nestled in Matt’s strong fingers did add a certain something to proceedings that proved trying enough to begin with.

Matt's so _precise_ about it all. He scrapes his spoon around in the container carefully, knocking it gently against the side to make sure it isn't overfull and in danger of spilling over before raising it to his mouth. He slips it in, eyebrows lifting the moment it hits his tongue, lips pursing as he slowly drags the spoon back out.

The way his lips curve up at the end of each bite, delight lurking in the corners - Foggy can objectively say that's the worst.

And it's all natural, too, just as free from artificial additives as that damn sorbet itself. At least, Foggy can say for a fact that it was that first time, because Matt had been way too sick and pitiful to be focused on eating as hotly as possible. And subsequent evidence has done nothing to indicate the contrary: Matt's sorbet approach has never wavered in Foggy’s experience, not with his mood, not with the time of day, not with the company he’s in.

It’s time to set a new precedent on that score. Sorbet: For Private Consumption Only.

Foggy's juggling a very cold bag in his hands when he knocks on Matt's door. It’s Saturday morning, eleven a.m.; a good time for errands. A good time for making sure vigilantes made it through the night in one piece. These days he thinks the plague is an actual, distinct possibility, no hyperbole involved, considering the amount of time Matt spends in the nastiest corners of the city. A lot of other things are possibilities, too. Waiting til Monday morning to find out whether or not any of those nightmares have become real isn't an option.

Matt’s in sweatpants and a hoodie when he opens the door. He's thankfully light on visible bruises, and he's not wearing his glasses. Foggy assumes that’s because he knew exactly who was on the other side. “Heartbeat, footsteps, or knock?” he asks, heading straight for Matt’s freezer.

“It's not an either/or,” Matt says, “and you forgot smell. Sorbet?”

“Yep! Thought I should bear gifts along with this particular bit of news. It's sorbet-related news,” he adds quickly, because Matt immediately stiffens up beside him. “It's this. As of Monday, in support of our continued efforts to create and maintain a professional working environment, Nelson and Murdock is going sorbet-free.”

Matt's brows knit up. “Foggy, what? Just sorbet? Or all food? Or all desserts?”

“Just sorbet,” Foggy confirms, closing the freezer door. “Murdock, you're a menace with a spoon. You have to know this.”

When Matt laughs that particular laugh with his head thrown back in that particular way, it means _yes, yes I am aware, but I prefer to leave you hanging while I cling to plausible deniability._ “A menace.”

“Hey, if the word fits. And it does.”

“Evidence?”

“I'm looking at you with incredulity, Matt. _Extreme_ incredulity. I know you and that frozen treat have a special relationship, but you can't possibly get so wrapped up in it that you miss all the ridiculous cardiac action going on around you.”

And hey, look at that. Matt can keep clinging if he wants; pretend that Foggy’s not talking about himself, just Karen’s tell-tale heart - Foggy assumes she's got one too, he's seen the flush that stains her cheeks when that spoon gets to work - or he can pretend that it's all just some weird Saturday morning joke.

Or he can acknowledge what Foggy's really saying here. Not likely, the record shows a tendency to brush these things off, but he could, he _could_.... Is this what it feels like for Matt in the instant he throws a punch? Use all the clues you want to predict the other guy’s behavior, but in the end, it comes down to a single moment: will he dance away from the jab, or let it land?

Matt, goddamn him, freezes up, and when he speaks it's a half-whisper. “I'll. I’ll eat wherever you want me to eat, Foggy.”

“Don’t -” Foggy’s eyes fall shut for a moment, because they have to. Gotta block out that face, those pressed, unhappy lips. “Buddy, don't make it like that.” Because that tone, that tone is _penance_ , and that's not what Foggy’d been looking for when he'd left home today. He'd just -

He'd had enough.

This morning he'd walked all the way from his apartment to Sorbet Me and all the way from Sorbet Me to Matt’s because... because he _could_. Good idea, bad idea, productive idea, destructive idea, it didn't matter. He'd had enough and it was something he could _do_.

Matt’s been rubbing off on him, apparently.

“No, I, it was. A lapse of control. You. Karen. You deserve better.” Matt doesn’t look this much like he’s been hit when he’s actually _been hit_ , and not for the first time, Foggy’s gone and opened the door into more than he’d been ready for. 

“You’re allowed to like things, Matt,” Foggy tries, but there’s not even a flicker of change: no lift to Matt’s chin, no slant to his lips, nothing. So that’s not it, or at least, not what Matt _thinks_ it is. “And I’m not angry that you knew about the cardiac action, okay? Pretty sure it was all over my face anyway. Haven’t asked Karen to confirm, though. Because awkward.”

That gets a reaction: Matt angles his head away. Because Foggy’d reminded him other people read faces? Or because he’d hit the mark? “I made you feel something you didn’t want to feel,” Matt finally gets out. “I, I should’ve known you didn’t. Probably - did know. I should’ve done better. I’m sorry.”

Careful. Careful. Curiosity, not accusation. “Okay, but did you like the idea that I felt something? Did you want me to?”

Matt crumples in front of him, one hand braced on the counter, the other down at his side, thumb worrying his fingers. His head’s still turned away, his chin’s down at his shoulder, and all in all, the forecast for clear and open communication isn’t looking so hot. But if he’ll just answer this. Foggy _needs_ him to answer this.

Matt’s head jerks. A short, broken nod. 

Foggy’s heart, Jesus, even _he_ can hear his heart losing it.

“Okay, okay, and since we both know you’re not an asshole who gets his jollies off people living in Unhappy Unrequitedville,” Foggy says, steady as he can, “I’m gonna refer you back to my earlier point. You’re allowed to like things. This is one of them.”

Nothing happens. A whole lot of nothing. 

Either Matt isn’t hearing Foggy, or he is, but Foggy’s words (and heartbeat, and breathing, and, and _smell_ , Foggy keeps forgetting smell, does sincerity have an odor? Talk about your _honest sweat_ -) aren’t getting through. Reaching out, Foggy touches Matt’s wrist just in case he needs the heads-up, then folds his hand around Matt’s calloused one. Matt’s fingers flutter one final time, knocking gently against Foggy’s palm, and go still.

“Hey,” Foggy says, softly. “I bet you’re hungry, right? Bet all you ate for breakfast was two oats and an apple.”

That does it. “Foggy, I'm not a horse,” Matt protests, turning slightly in Foggy’s direction, and there. There, at the edge of his mouth, the sun peeks out, so beautiful Foggy almost cheers.

“Who’s talking about horses? I'm talking about people who waste their time on proteins that grow out of the ground,” Foggy says, breaking into the opening lines of his anti-quinoa, anti-soy rant. Which doesn’t cover soy sauce, by the way, he’s perfectly content with soy as a condiment, but when it's pressed into blocks and chopped up and cooked like it’s supposed to _taste_ like something he's got a few issues. As Matt well knows. 

But that one line of his glorious rant is enough to prompt a few more lovely rays. Foggy squeezes Matt's hand, fingers digging in tightly, then slips away to go open the freezer. When he slides a container of sorbet across the counter in front of Matt, Matt registers it with a little lift of his head, but makes no move towards it.

Foggy sighs. Pops the lid. Grabs a spoon from the cutlery drawer.

“Foggy,” Matt breathes. “Foggy, are - are you saying you - you would choose this?”

“No, what I'm saying is I already have.” Foggy presses the spoon into Matt's hand, curling Matt’s stiff fingers around it. “Now listen up, Murdock, if you let that melt you're gonna owe me six bucks.”

A watery sound escapes Matt's throat. “Can't have that,” he says, and slides the spoon into the sorbet. 

He fills it carefully - not too full - and slips it into his mouth. It's just like every time before, and nothing like ever before, because there's a new world of happiness shining from the corners of that mouth, breaking out across every inch of those lips, and Foggy doesn't think it has much to do with the sweetness melting on his tongue. 

Foggy wonders if his heartbeat is the same but different, too. If Matt can hear joy.

The spoon slides back into the sorbet. And then it’s torture again, but a new kind of torture, because now Foggy has the power to make it _end_. He holds out for about two more bites. “If you don't show me what else that mouth can do,” he says, conversationally, “I'm going to put that carton in the sun and dance while it melts.”

Matt pauses, eyebrows raised, and slowly drags the spoon out of his mouth. “Contradictory motions, counsellor,” he says, rubbing his sticky-sweet lips together and neatly dropping the spoon in the sorbet.

“Yeah, well, shut up is a motion, too,” Foggy fires back, about two seconds before Matt's fingers touch his chin and his lips descend.

Sunshine has a feel, and a taste. It’s citrus-bright, berry-sweet, softer than soft, and fits so perfectly against Foggy’s lips that at just one touch he’s ready to swear off the moon and stars forever. Sunshine is Matt’s fingers clutching at Foggy’s hip. It’s the long gorgeous curve of his upturned mouth. It’s the shape of delight.

Foggy basks.


End file.
